


Jaskier fights god

by Failing_Physics



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, and jaskier gets to be a hero, bc thats my jam, so enjoy lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Failing_Physics/pseuds/Failing_Physics
Summary: It was clear from the start that Jaskier was inept at sword fighting but that training suddenly becomes incredibly relevant when bandits attack (This was originally a one shot but i decided to continue it so the first chapter doesn't have much plot in)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 48
Kudos: 567





	1. Jaskier's duel

**Author's Note:**

> I had fun writing this so enjoy! Also holy heck the response on my other witcher fanfic was amazing thank you

“One, two, three, and GUARD!”  
Jaskier yelped as the wooden branch whacked his ribs with enough force to make him stumble back and his eyes water.  
“That hurt, Geralt!” The bard groaned, rubbing his side and swiping up his own branch from where it had fallen. The Witcher only raised an eyebrow.  
“That would’ve hurt more if it was a real sword Jaskier.”  
Jaskier huffed and straightened upright, fingers still running deftly over the quickly forming bruise.  
“Again. One, two, three, and GUARD!”  
Jaskier swing his makeshift sword with all the force he could muster into his sore muscles, but even so, Geralt was faster and Jaskier only gained yet another bruise for his efforts. Frustrated, Jaskier threw down his branch.  
“Geralt, this isn’t working! We've been doing this for a week now and it’s clear I’m no fighter. Can we just go to bed?”  
Geralt sighed but his flat expression remained.  
“Jaskier, you know the rules. If you insist on following me around like a lost puppy then you need to learn to defend yourself.”  
The pair had been travelling between cities for about two weeks now and Jaskier had started to harbour the suspicion that they were lost, but even so, Geralt stonily dragged them further and further into the wilderness each day. And then the sword lessons had started. It was clear from the start that Jaskier was inept, but Geralt still insisted in duelling the bard every night until Jaskier was so sore he could barely walk back to their camp. Sighing, Jaskier picked up the branch, swallowing a yelp of pain as his ribs barked in protest at the sudden movement.  
“One, two, three, and guard!”  
This time Jaskier’s branch was flung up with barely a second to spare as Geralt’s own branch was blocked only an inch from Jaskier’s stomach. Jaskier’s ‘ha!’ of triumph was abruptly cut off as Geralt swept his makeshift sword under Jaskier’s feet and the bard fell hard to the snow-swept ground.  
“Fuck!” Jaskier gasped as the air was driven out of him and he closed his eyes, desperately trying to recover without looking like he was trying to recover. Eventually he sucked in enough air to exclaim, “The fuck was that for??”  
“You’ve got to be ready for anything.”  
“W - I - Oh go to hell!”  
Jaskier picked himself off the ground with as much anger as he could muster and stormed off into the forest, glaring at the trees as if each and every one was personally responsible for his predicament. Stupid Geralt, stupid swordfightling, stupid… Jaskier swiftly ran out of curses and amused himself by kicking a pile of leaves high into the air. A gust of snow-kissed wind tousled Jaskier’s hair and carried the leaves far beyond Jaskier’s view. He shivered and leaned back against a tree. Geralt was being an utter prick, but… he was being a prick for all the right reasons, Jaskier supposed, though the thought didn’t make the bard any happier. This anger began ebbing away and he frowned deeper at the realization that he was going to have to go back to the camp and face Geralt, or at least grab his lute. By now the sunlight was painting its golden rays through the forest and almost without thinking, Jaskier was thinking up lyrics. He sighed. Time to go back to Geralt.  
Night had fallen, hard and brutal, by the time Jaskier had meandered his way back to camp, almost offended that the white-haired Witcher hadn’t come looking for him, if it hadn’t been cold and dark and… spooky. The light of the campfire had grown blinding in the darkness when Jaskier suddenly halted at the sound of raised voices coming from the camp. His first thought was that Geralt had brought back some company for the night, but was quickly dismissed as Jaskier came to the conclusion that there wasn’t exactly an overflowing abundance of women in the middle of the frozen forest. The voices grew louder.  
“I say we kill him. Mutant freak.”  
“The boss did say get the Witcher alive…”  
“He didn’t say unharmed.”  
There was a pause.  
“Fine.”  
“And find that bard - I don’t want him escaping.”  
Jaskier felt his blood grow cold. Bandits. Ah fuck. He peered closer and the bard’s breath caught in his throat and his heart twisted as he noticed the hulking figure of Geralt slumped over on the floor, blood matting a wound on his forehead. He was unconscious or at the very least dazed. Shit,shit,shit. Jaskier hurriedly withdrew into the woods, disappearing behind the trunks before he snuck around the camp towards the Witcher.  
“Geralt!” he hissed, straying as close to the ring of light cast by the fire as he dared. “Geralt!” Again, there was no response and Jaskier bit his tongue to cut off the curses there.  
“Jaskier…” rasped Geralt, eyes flickering open for a second before closing again. “Run you fool.”  
A flare of anger and terror snapped through Jaskier’s body, so intense that it frightened even him.  
Anger won.  
Jaskier scanned the campsite, eyes narrowing as he noticed Geralt’s impressive arsenal of weapons stacked and left by a tree. Before he could talk himself out of this stupid, stupid plan Jaskier was already creeping back through the trees; wincing as twigs and leaves cracked under his careful steps. Sucking in a breath, his hand slid round the hit of the sword sand gently, silently, he slid it up out of the pile, almost falling backwards at the surprising weight.  
CRASH.  
The cluster of silver and iron blades fell to the floor with a resounding clash as the sword Jaskier was so desperately clutching caught on the blade of another and sent the whole pile tumbling to the ground. The two bandits spun round, hands already drawing their swords before Jaskier could draw another breath. Looked like the element of surprise is out, he thought and with a shaky exhale, the bard held the sword out, trying to ignore the slight shaking that had seized his muscles. The bandits smirked, lowering their swords slightly.  
“Adorable. The bard protecting his Witcher. Put that down and come with us and we might not hurt you too badly.”  
Jaskier swallowed, positioning himself between the two men and the unconscious Geralt. The first bandit frowned, before striking forward with his own blade. Jaskier yelped, jumping back and swinging his sword. The loud clash of metal echoed through the clearing. The bard blinked with shock. He’d blocked it. He’d actually done it. All those horrific sword fighting lessons might have actually paid off. Encouraged now, Jaskier pressed forward, meeting every swing with a counter of his own. One, two, three, and guard! Jaskier could almost hear Geralt bellowing instructions in his ears.  
“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice was urgent and, thrown off him rhythm, Jaskier stumbled backwards - only to miss the blade of the second man by inches and was smacked on the head by the flat of the blade. Disoriented, he stumbled backwards, before tripping, ears ringing and blade slipping from his slack fingers. The sound of clashing metal reverberating through the trees dimly reached Jaskier’s brain from a million miles away. Slowly, the bard clawed back into awareness, until he was conscious enough to watch Geralt standing over him, gleaming sword in one hand, and mouth set grimly. His movements were stilted, but even so, the bandits were no match for the Witcher and he wove his sword through the air so fast Jaskier could barely follow it with his eyes. The two men were steadily forced back into the forest where they melted into the inky darkness and Jaskier could hear hurried footsteps and muffled curses fading into the night. Geralt was still for a moment as if listening and Jaskier struggled to his feet, almost falling again as a sense of vertigo struck him, but he regained his footing as Geralt turned towards him. Jaskier swallowed his pride.  
“Listen, I, um, I’m sorry. You,” he sighed slightly, “Were right.”  
Geralt paused. “Was that - did you just admit I’m right?” He asked incredulously. Jaskier opened his mouth, but Geralt cut in first, “What you did was stupid, you could have died. But... thank you Dandelion.”  
“Did you just-”  
“Mention it again and I break your lute.”


	2. Voices in the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his fight, Jaskier keeps hearing a voice outside their camp at night and goes to find out what's causing it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had fun writing this, hope you enjoy!

Jaskier settled back against the tree, stifling a groan as the rough bark dug into his tender bruises. The impromptu fight had left him with a multitude of cuts and a rather nasty gash across his arm that still hadn’t stopped bleeding. Even the adrenaline that had kept him steady throughout his skirmish was swiftly ebbing and now Jaskier felt decidedly wobbly. And in desperate need of a nap. Geralt turned towards him with a scrutinizing gaze, eyes raking over Jaskier and finally settling on the wound on his arm.

“That’s going to need stitches,” he said, reaching down and pulling out a wickedly sharp needle from his bag.

“No. No, no, no,  _ no, no, _ you’re not putting that anywhere near me.”

“What, the mighty bard afraid of a little needle?” Geralt smirked.

“Your definition of little and mine are  _ very  _ different.” Jaskier scrambled backwards, “And you’ve forgotten my new-found sword skills.”   
“Jaskier. That’s going to get infected, will you just let me sew it up.”   
Jaskier gritted his teeth. “Fine.”    
Geralt leaned in, expertly pressing the wound together until only a neat line of stitches remained. Jaskier screwed his eyes shut. “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck. Is it done yet?”   
“It’s done.” 

Jaskier released a shaky breath. “If you tell  _ anyone  _ about this I’ll- I’ll fight you.”

“Right.” There was a pause. “This doesn’t get you out of fighting lessons though bard.”

“I’m a wounded man Geralt. In my body and my soul.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. 

“Uh, Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“You you think those bandits will come back?” 

“No.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“But, they were after you, I heard them talking about their boss wanting you alive or something - wait, what was that?” Jaskier paused, nerves standing on edge as he scanned the forest, ears pricked for the sound that he was  _ so sure  _ that he had just heard. Geralt was on his feet in a second, hand already on the hilt of his sword. 

“What? What did you hear?”   
“I - I thought I heard someone whisper my name.”

Geralt relaxed immediately and Jaskier sagged against the tree. “You don’t believe me,” he said miserably. Geralt shook his head.   
“No, but you’re exhausted. Just go to sleep Jaskier.”   
“But - what if the bandits come back?”    
“I’ll keep watch.”   
“What, all night?”   
“Yes.”   
“No… don’t do that, wake me up and I’ll take over…” But he was already sinking into sleep. 

————————

“Hit me Jaskier.”

“No.”

“Hit me.”

“No!” 

“Hit me or I’ll  _ make you _ hit me.”

“Fine!” Exasperated, Jaskier threw a half-hearted punch at Geralt’s face which was unsurprisingly blocked with ease. 

“At least  _ try  _ Jaskier.”

“I  _ am _ trying-” Jaskier’s protests were abruptly cut off as he was forced to duck to avoid Geralt’s fist that sailed too close to his head.

“Geralt! That could’ve hit me!” 

“That’s the plan.”

After mastering sword fighting (that wasn’t true, Geralt had decided he could handle a real sword in training, but, even after the bandits, Jaskier had his hands on it for about three minutes and in that time he had killed a tree, almost impaled himself and chopped off a lock of Geralt’s hair. Geralt had subsequently decided to teach him something that was a little less pointy) Jaskier had moved onto hand to hand combat with Geralt and it had become clear that he was somehow worse at that than the sword fighting. 

Supposedly, the pair was drawing closer to the city but all Jaskier knew was that the trees were growing more dense by the day and that civilisation seemed a long way off. And that every night since the bandit attack, he had heard a voice whispering in the trees in the shadows behind their camp. He hadn’t mentioned it to Geralt yet - he knew the Witcher wouldn’t believe him - and even though whatever was making the noise hadn’t made an appearance, Jaskier still felt nervous staring into the inky black forest at night. 

————————   
  
Jaskier stared hard at the stars above him, willing sleep to come. The goddamn voice had come back and the bard could hear it whispering at the edge of the camp. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, abruptly sitting upright in his sleeping mat. Geralt was still lying across the clearing, sleeping so deep he might as well have been unconscious. “Fuck,” Jaskier said again, but this time slid out of the sleeping bag. If he couldn’t get any damned peace then he was at least going to see what was causing it. It’d make a good song at the very least. And if he got into trouble, he’d scream and Geralt could come and do his Witchering thing. Ignoring how truly terrible this plan was, the bard slid Geralt’s sword out of his scabbard and snuck into the waiting woods. Yet the moment he passed the ring of light cast by the dying embers, the forest suddenly seemed darker and much more terrifying.  _ Yep, nope, nope, nope, terrible idea.  _ But before he could turn around, a flash of brilliant white caught Jaskier’s eye through the trees and he turned. A figure draped in white was standing eerily with their back turned just outside the camp. A bolt of awe and terror froze Jaskier to the floor. He had never been superstitious - but that had lasted right up until he had set eyes on the living god in front of him. The city that they were travelling to, Bemoith, Jaskier had stayed there for a while and become familiar with the local superstitions - and this was their most prolific deity; the Lady of Light. 

A hand slammed down on his shoulder and Jaskier jumped about a foot in the air before realizing that it was only Geralt. 

“Geralt, that’s-”

“Whatever that thing is, that is not a god. You need to leave. Now.” 

“But-”

“This is not up for debate.” 

Seeing Geralt’s jaw set in a grim line, Jaskier began to back away, still clutching the silver sword. For once he had no response and could only stare at the white figure. But both of the pair paused as it spoke, just one word, in a rasping whisper.

“Leave.” 

Before either Geralt or Jaskier could decide whether to respond, the figure walked in to the forest and disappeared. Jaskier blew out a shaky breath. 

“Yep, no, we’re not going to Bemoith.”

“Yes we are.”

“Are you insane? A literal god descends from the sky and tells us to leave and that  _ doesn’t bother you _ ??” 

“That was not a god Jaskier. And I’m not in the habit of taking orders from fake deities. We go on.” 

“Geralt! You’re forcing me to be the voice of reason here and you know that’s not good for me!”

“We’re going Jaskier.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were  _ actually trying  _ to get us killed.”

“Look Jaskier, first the bandits, now whatever that thing was in the woods - something is trying to get us to stop us getting to Bemoith, or at least scare us off, and I intend to find out why.” 

“ _ Fine. _ But when you attract the wrath of the gods and they smite you, know that I  _ will _ be making that into a ballad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and kudos are appreciated :)


	3. Voices of the temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier goes off alone to investigate Bemoith

“Geralt! Do you see that?” Jaskier flourished his hand in the direction of burning torchlight at the bottom of the valley. “It’s  _ civilisation _ ! It’s food, it’s wine, it’s… fuck, Geralt, it’s  _ soap _ !” 

“Hmm.”    
  


“Oh  _ come on _ , Geralt, don’t tell me it doesn’t fill your heart with joy at the thought of an actual bed - some of us can’t sleep on sticks and stones forever!” Jaskier was practically fizzing with glee at the sight of the city of Bemoith. 

“Don’t forget why we’re here Jaskier.”    
  


The poet pouted slightly as he remembered exactly why the pair had slogged through the woods for the last two weeks. No more sightings of what Jaskier was almost a hundred percent sure was a definitely a deity, no matter what Geralt said, no more whispering in the woods, and no more bandits. But even so, the white-haired Witcher had grown more and more tense every night, to the point where he would wake at the slightest russell from the bushes. Whilst at first Jaskier had teased him, now the bard was beginning to worry about his friend. And despite the fact that Jaskier had spent the whole time complaining about travelling to the city, now that it was in their sights, the poet was suddenly in high spirits. He laughed.

“Ah, well, if a vengeful deity does decide to smite us to hell, at least we’ll go there with a belly full of food and wine!”    
  


Geralt said nothing, but flicked up his eyebrows at Jaskier and grabbed Roach’s reins before leading her down the steep road to the valley basin. Jaskier followed, gently strumming his lute as he did so.   
  


“ _ O City of Lights… _ ”

————————

It was another two hours of painstakingly picking their way down a surprisingly decrepit path before the weary pair managed to reach the valley floor. Geralt turned to him, a strangely serious expression on his face.   
  


“We’re camping out here tonight Jaskier.”    
  


Jaskier stared at him like he hadn’t heard the Witcher correctly. “What? But - Geralt - there is a bed somewhere in that town made of actual feathers and my name on it - I am  _ not  _ sleeping in this god-forsaken, death-trap of a forest for a single moment longer than I absolutely have to.”

“Look Jaskier, this  _ death-trap of a forest  _ is better than that city right now - did you forget that something was trying very hard to keep us away from Bemoith? We’ll go in the daylight when we’re less likely to be snuck up on.”    
  


Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut at the expression on Geralt’s face. It was one that he knew from memory at this point - it said ‘don’t argue or you’ll be getting extra bruises in training tomorrow’. So Jaskier didn’t argue, but a sly plan was already forming in his mind. 

————————

Jaskier helped set up camp, he helped gather firewood, he helped stir the stew and then he waited, pinching himself to keep awake, until he heard Geralt’s breathing evening out and he was sure that the Witcher was asleep. The bard slowly slid himself out of the sleeping bag, pausing every few seconds to make sure that the Witcher was still deep in slumber. Maybe Geralt could survive on rabbits and sleep on rocks every night, but the thought of a plate of cooked food, a bed in an inn and a tavern full of people itching to hear one of Jaskier’s ballards was just so tempting that the poet couldn’t stay away another night.  _ It’d be fine,  _ he told himself,  _ I’ll be back in the morning - Geralt didn’t even need to know I’ve been gone.  _ Slinging his lute over his shoulder and grabbing one of Geralt’s smaller knives for reassurance, Jaskier left the small camp and wove his way through the dark trees, following the faint glow of torch light on the horizon. 

The entrance of Bemoith was only about twenty paces away when Jaskier first heard the chanting. It wasn’t in a language that Jaskier recognised and it was more like a keening wail that fluctuated in a rhythm that made the hairs on Jaskier’s arms stand up in apprehension. A feeling of dread began clawing its way through Jaskier’s veins the longer he listened and a strong urge to run and run until he couldn’t take another step settled horribly in the pit of his stomach. Jaskier listened to his gut and spun around - before slamming into something solid. 

Vision half-obscured by terror from the unearthly sound, Jaskier struck out with his fists, automatically ducking and smoothly sidestepping as the stranger’s hands grasped for him. Aiming for the stranger’s throat like Geralt had taught him, Jaskier managed to land a punch and send the man spluttering away. For a second, his head cleared and the poet frantically glanced around for escape, but the only route he could see that didn’t involve diving through the thick undergrowth lead directly into the town. But before he could bolt away, a rough hand grabbed his arm and janked it back.   
  


“Fucking hell Jaskier.” Geralt said, hand rubbing his throat where a red mark blemished his skin, “I don’t know whether to be pissed or pleased you retained something I taught you.”    
  


Jaskier relaxed almost immediately at the sight of the Witcher. “Pleased. Definitely pleased - but bloody hell can you not sneak up on me like that?? I could’ve sworn that you’re actively  _ trying _ to send me to an early grave.” 

“Then don’t steal my knives and wander off in the night  _ bard _ .”

Jaskier paused, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Geralt of Rivia - were you  _ worried  _ about me?”

Geralt dodged the question and instead looked towards the town. “Something is very wrong. We’re going to find out what.” He started striding towards the city, Jaskier shook his head slightly, before following the witcher, not wanting to be left alone with just the shadows and the wailing for company. 

————————

The pair slowly wove their way through the streets. At first even Geralt had been cautious, but the only living thing that they found were mangy dogs that snapped at Jaskier as the bard passed. If it wasn’t for the ever-present wailing, Jaskier would’ve assumed that the town was abandoned. But they carried on moving towards the chanting, even though every nerve in Jaskier’s body was screeching at him to turn around and leave. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt hissed, motioning him forward from where he was peering through a high, stained-glass window. Hesitantly, Jaskier glanced through the glass, and his eyes widened. Maybe a thousand people were packed into a high domed temple and exquisitely painted temple, huddled together and giving out that stomach-wrenching wailing.

The crowd roared in response as a figure stepped out into a raised platform at the head of the gathering. Jaskier had to blink a few times and press his face against the cool window pane to be sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. The figure draped in silken white cloths raised their hands and the congregation suddenly went still and silent, a different kind of energy crackling through them now. The type of energy that’s in the eye of the storm - the calm before all hell breaks loose. 

“Geralt, that’s- that’s what we saw in the forest!” 

“I know. We’re leaving. Now.” 

Jaskier backed away, following Geralt back through the maze of streets until after what felt like a lifetime of of sprinting, they finally made it back to the gates of the city. It wasn’t until he crossed the threshold of the town that Jaskier realized that he was trembling. He blew out a shaky breath and glanced over at the Witcher.

“The _fuck_ was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and kudos are appreciated!


	4. Temple of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt venture further into the city itself and are met with a nasty surprise

“It’s a cult Geralt! It’s a bloody cult!”

Geralt said nothing, just tapped his forearm with his blade impatiently. Jaskier narrowed his eyes and swung his blade towards the arm of the Witcher before it was lazily countered.    
“Geralt!” the poet gasped, “A cult! Do you know what cults do?” Jaskier broke off and he threw up his own blade just before Geralt’s sword slammed into it with bone-jarring force. “Cults,” he met Geralt’s next swing with one of his own, “kill people, kidnap children, and steal innocent bard’s earnings.”

“How is that at the top of your list.”

“Well, only the latter has happened to me.” The sound of metal rang once again through the trees. “Geralt, say something!”

“I’m thinking.”

“Well think harder, because they could be creeping into the woods right now with their weird culty-god to kill us!”

“That won’t happen Jaskier.”

Jaskier leaped backwards out of the way of Geralt’s blade, just to find that the Witcher had been gradually forcing him back into the nearby stream. His boots found the muddy stream bed, freezing water soaking the leather in an instant. He yelped, throwing down his sword and scrambling past the Witcher. 

“Fuck - bloody - those were my lucky boots Geralt!”

The Witcher just stared at him incredulously, shaking his head, “Your lucky… just pick up your sword Jaskier.” 

Jaskier huffed but obliged anyway, stamping his feet to warm them, and once again the trees echoed with the sound of metal against metal. The pair were silent for a while. Jaskier, tongue poking out in concentration, spent all his energy trying to find away past Geralt’s impeccable defences. Finally the Witcher spoke again:

“We’ll go into town today.”

Jaskier paused in shock and earnt a smack by the flat of Geralt’s blade for his lapse in concentration.

“Ow! Right, two things: firstly - ow! That’s going to bruise and then I won’t be able to play my lute so beautifully and secondly -  _ no _ . No way are we going back into that town. Did you forget that we literally witnessed a god commanding about a  _ thousand people _ . You know, they probably sent the bandits after us!” 

Geralt just looked at him flatly. “Do you not want to find out why?” 

The poet looked back, a slight curiosity in his eyes. “Fine - if only to,  _ once again _ , be the sole voice of reason!”

_______________

The city of Bemoith was much different when it was lit by the sun and not the ghostly flicker of torchlight; Jaskier had even anticipated the terrifying chanting to pick up once they passed through the city gates, but the only thing he was greeted with was the laughter of children as they raced through the streets and the usual clamour of the midday market. Though at first the bard hand initially clutched his lute so tightly that his fingers had gone white and stayed glued to the Witcher’s side, as the pair wove further and further into the city streets, Jaskier relaxed, shocked at just how  _ normal _ the city seemed. 

They meandered through the marketplace, Jaskier even going as far to badger Geralt into giving him the money for a pie and sniffing at the local bard who was, as it happened, playing one of Jaskier’s ballads. He was in such high spirits that it was only when Geralt yanked his arm back did Jaskier notice the high-domed temple that they had spied the gathering though the other night.    
“Shiiiit…” 

The poet watched Geralt stride up to the intricately carved oak doors as a thin, pale man who reminded Jaskier nastily of a duke who had thrown him from a window after he had found the poet in his chambers with his daughter, greeted them.    
“Yes, me and my friend have heard of the grandeur of the Bemoith cathedral and since we were passing through, couldn’t help being drawn to it.”

The man nodded vaguely at Geralt, but his eyes remained glued to Geralt’s wolf pendant and Geralt’s easy-going smile became slightly sharper. “Sir?” 

“You - you’re a Witcher aren’t you?” If possible, the man’s face went three shades paler, “but how did you…” He coughed slightly and shook his head, before plastering a desperate grin on his face. “We’d be honoured to show you around mr Witcher, sir.” 

He glanced away from Geralt and for an instant Jaskier caught a savage expression take over the man’s pale features for a second before he ushered them inside. 

And then the doors snapped shut behind them.

Jaskier spun around, finding their exit blocked.    
“Geralt-”

“I know. Get behind me,now - take this.” Geralt pressed the hit of a sword into Jaskier’s hands who held it like a lifeline. Slowly, so slowly, they edged forward, the silence so vast and all-consuming that Jaskier was sure his heartbeat must have been deafening. The shaded doorway at the opposite end of the marble hall edged closer and a similar dread that had struck him last night settled in Jaskier’s stomach as something moved in the darkness ahead of them and Jaskier could only stare as the white god approached them. 

“What brings you to this temple?” the brittle voice hissed through the air, “I told you to leave, did I not?” 

Geralt’s answering smile was unpleasant, “I’m sorry  _ my lady _ , but I am not in the habit of taking orders from gods, false or no.” 

The figure just stood there in the half-light of the shadows and the sense of  _ wrongness _ that the deity gave off was almost stifling. 

“Ah, Witcher. Have you come to kill me then? Have you come to take my powers? Have you come to challenge a god? Because I can assure you that is one challenge you will not win.”

“I believe you. But, then again, you are not a god, so you must be bluffing.”   
“Is that so?”

Jaskier watched as Geralt opened his mouth to make another snarky comment he heard the distinctive snap of an opening door and spun around, eyes landing on the stream of armed city folk rushing into the temple, practically bristling with homemade weapons. 

“Stay down, Jaskier, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Jaskier suddenly felt himself being shoved to the side by a rough hand, his head smacking the marble pillars behind him and instinctively curling to the side to protect his lute. The poet lay still, head ringing and was only dimly aware of the sounds of sword fighting in the background as his senses returned. 

_______________

The bard slowly came to, eyes flickering over the scene before him. The temple was empty. Cool white floors and stained glass glared back at him - but no mob - and no Geralt. Jaskier dragged his gaze up to meet the hooded face of the deity, the only other creature in the room. 

“Run home little bard,” The voice was mocking, “your Witcher friend will be safe with us.” The voice faded as the creature glided away, leaving Jaskier alone with only the blinding sunlight for company.  _ Where was geralt? What if they hurt him? What if… _ Jaskier’s heart felt was so brittle he thought it might shatter as he gripped the leather hit of the sword Geralt had given him. No. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - leave the Witcher to die here. He’d get Geralt back - even if he had to go against a literal god to do so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always comments and kudos are appreciated!


	5. To capture a bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes a discovery whilst trying to break Geralt out of prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow guys, thank you so much for the response on this fanfic! It's been amazing so thank you all so much!

Jaskier had been watching the temple for two days now and not once had the deity left the building. Various characters had wandered in and out and Jaskier had observed them all with a rigorous eye, but still the white-shrouded figure had not appeared. He’d ventured into local taverns to glean what information he could about the deity, but all he received was narrow looks and muttered insults until he’d stopped in fear of being discovered as an unbeliever. 

The poet had also made several ventures into the city center but the city dungeons were too heavily guarded. The only area that he hadn’t dared approach yet was a small back room of the temple, but now, on the evening of the second day since Geralt was taken, Jaskier was beginning to feel that he hadn’t got many more options than to approach that god-forsaken temple. And so now he was crouching in the middle of a filthy alleyway, just below the cracked window of the compact room, trying to pluck up the courage to look in. 

Sucking in one last final, desperate breath, Jaskier gingerly poked his head up to peer through the window, eyes squinting through the murky glass. The room at the back of the temple was bare, but strangely homely. A bed which was no more than a straw mattress in the corner, next to a small stack of well-loved books; a dainty vase sat on a threadbare carpet - but no sign of the goddess. Jaskier shook his head slightly at his foolishness and made to duck away before anyone could see the bard crouching like a lunatic outside the temple, when the door to the room was flung open and the white shrouded deity strode into the room, a small, slimy, and decidedly rat-like man following her. 

Jaskier gaped, fear bolting him in place, and unable to close his mouth, as the deity’s form began to morph like wet clay, becoming fluid and molten until the once willowy figure became squat and lumpy. The creature ripped off the white veil, revealing heavy set features and an unpleasant expression that was definitely not the mark of a millennia-old god. The poet threw himself down onto the street before it could see him.  _ A mimic, a shapeshifter, a skinwalker _ \- Jaskier knew hundreds of ballads and legends about creatures who could supposedly steal any form they desired, but not once had he actually considered the creatures to be  _ real _ . 

“How much tax did the leather-workers pay towards the temple today Calvin?” Jaskier heard the mimic ask. 

“Just short of 300 crowns.”   
“And the fishermen?”   
“150.”

“Rack that up by 5% next month. Tonight we’ll hold a gathering in the temple - those heretics in the dungeons need to me made an example of.”

“As you wish sir And what about that Witcher?”

“We’ll kill him too - the city needs reminding that their  _ goddess _ is not to be trifled with.” 

There was a long silence after that where Jaskier lay still, willing life back into his limbs as he tried to wrap his brain around that he had just witnessed. He almost felt like laughing - the god that the city had been obsessed with was no more than a common criminal. But the elation swiftly faded as the bard came to the conclusion that even a  _ common criminal  _ wouldn’t be able to take over such a large city so effectively without the aid of magic, and powerful magic at that. 

The familiar feeling of hopelessness crashed back over Jaskier and he desperately wished that Geralt was with him again. Jaskier blew out a shaky breath - the only way to sort out this whole fuck-up was to go to where Geralt was being held and break him out - which meant he would have to be arrested.  _ Right into the vipers nest.  _ Jaskier had never thought that the saying would be more apt. 

_______________

The poet stood on the edge of the fountain, spreading his arms wide and clearing his throat. 

“I,” Jaskier proclaimed, “denounce your fake gods and say that your Lady of Light is nothing but a spirit of trickery.” The market was abruptly still and silent, every eye on the bard as he swept his gaze over the masses. Energy thrummed in the air, whipping over Jaskier’s skin and raising the hairs there. 

“I am also a  _ proud _ associate of Geralt of Rivia, the known heretic and unbeliever. We are…” He paused as inspiration struck him, “Lovers! Yup, that’s what I’m leading with.” He muttered, “We are passionate lovers and have come to tear down your false idol!”

The silence grew thicker - for a moment Jaskier thought that they hadn’t heard him and was beginning to feel a bit foolish, before an elderly woman with wiry grey hair stepped forwards. 

“Heretic!” She screamed and as if the word had sent a live wire through the crowd, they suddenly surged forward, wailing and shrieking. Jaskier felt himself pulled forward, off the fountain, and jostled around in the crowd. He let himself fall limp as he was roughly forced along with them, and even though he was offering no resistance, Jaskier still felt bruises form on his ribs. 

The journey passed in a blur, seeming to take both no time at all and hours at once before he was thrown to his knees in front of a squat grey building. At some point the crowd had started chanting  _ ‘Heretic, heretic, heretic _ ’, the noise growing stronger and more intense every second, until the slimy man that the poet had spotted with the mimic appeared at the front of the property. 

The crowd gradually grew silent and restless, still simmering with that repressed, dangerous energy. Jaskier met the gaze of the man with raised eyebrows, feeling sure that the man could hear his heart frantically thudding in Jaskier’s chest. He was hauled upright, feeling the hidden sword under his shirt scrape painfully over his injured ribs at the movement. The man scrutinized him for a second. 

“Throw him with other heretics.” 

The crowd gave an almost animalistic yell of victory as a large black cloth was thrown over Jaskier’s head. 

_____________

Jaskier gasped in the fresh air as the sack was yanked off his head and he was shoved forward into a filthy holding cell. The door was slammed behind him with a jarring thud and the bard flinched slightly before pulling himself together as best he could and surveying the room. Roughly twenty people lay sprawled around the cramped space, all hunched over or lying limp on the floor, from sheer hopelessness or sickness, Jaskier couldn’t tell. 

“So this sorry lot are the heretics,” he muttered, before his eyes found a familiar heap slumped in a shaded corner. 

“Geralt!”    
Jaskier rushed over, ignoring the way his injuries howled in protest, and knelt before the Witcher. 

“Fuck sake, Jaskier… I… told you to not... get hurt,” Geralt grunted, though his movements were stilted and his eyes were glazed with pain. Jaskier shoved back the concern in his expression, knowing it wouldn’t be well-received. 

“Well hello to you too,” the poet tried to inject some lightheartedness into his tone. “I’ve come to break you out.” 

Geralt stared flatly at him and Jaskier winced at the sight of the matted blood coating the Witcher’s white hair. 

“This place... is crawling with guards - unless you have... magically smuggled a goddamn sword in… here then we’re both stuck…”   
“Well, as it happens,” Jaskier cast a glance at the guards nearby and lowered his voice. “I did manage to smuggle a sword in here - apparently I’m so nonthreatening that I don’t need to be searched. And I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.” He paused for a second. “Can you walk?”

“No.”

“Right.”   
Breaking out of this hell-hole was turning out to be much harder than breaking in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always comments and kudos make my day! <3


	6. Damsel in distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier finally makes it to Geralt, but is now at a loss for what to do

Geralt shifted across the rough floor with difficulty and Jaskier almost felt like averting his eyes at his friend’s vulnerability. He swallowed hard as he finished his story.

“And so I stood on the fountain and yelled some obscenities about their goddess and… was brought here. My plan worked” He couldn’t keep the smug edge out of his voice.

“So, it turns out that our ethereal goddess is actually mimic...” Geralt murmured. 

“Is that… better?” Jaskier’s tone was hopeful.

“No, no it’s not, mimics are fairly powerless so this one must’ve learnt some fairly impressive magic to have been able to take over such a large city.” 

The pair were silent for a long time after that and Jaskier assumed that Geralt must have slipped back into sleep, exhaustion and pain finally overcoming him. Jaskier had only been in the cell half an hour and every minute that went by he was beginning to get progressively more worried about Geralt. Even though he supposed that not even injuries would last long on a Witcher, the glazed look in Geralt’s eyes was definitely concerning.

“Right Jaskier, you need to listen.” Jaskier gave a slight start at the noise. “The guards are coming to feed us soon - you need to get rid of them.”

“Get rid of - you mean attack them?”

“Yes, you have a sword and the training.” 

Jaskier nodded vigorously to himself, but his face was still set in an unconvinced grimace. Geralt seemed to notice and leaning forwards. 

“Jaskier - you said that they’re going to kill us tonight. This might be our only chance to get out of here.” He paused, “You’ll be fine - I wouldn’t ask you to do this otherwise. 

Jaskier kept nodding, hand finding the worn leather on the hilt of his sword as he swallowed 

painfully. He - he could do this. Yeah, it was just like training. Except infinitely more dangerous. And stupid. And more likely to actually get stabbed - 

The door to the holding cell clanged against rough stone, the noise setting Jaskier’s teeth on edge as it was thrown open. Two exceptionally intimidating figures stepped forward, clutching a pair of greasy sacks and eyeing the prisoners with threatening glares. The poet hurriedly stood before they could throw down the food and leave, taking a shaky breath and steadily drawing his sword. Too late to go back now. The dull blade gleamed in the half-light and there was a barely perceptible intake of breath from the two guards, but it was swiftly smothered. They smiled.

“We’ve got a lively one.” The tone was menacing, but Jaskier suddenly found his resolve strengthened. He said nothing. 

“Put that down.”   
“No.”   
“Put it down or we’ll  _ make _ you.”   
“I guess you have to make me then.” 

Jaskier barely saw the dagger before it struck his own blade and he jerked back, throwing up his sword and watching sparks fly from the metal. The man swung again and purely out of reflex, Jaskier ducked, sidestepping the blade. The guard stepped forward, jabbing towards the bard - at the last moment Jaskier noticed and flinched away, getting a thin, bleeding scrape for his efforts. He adjusted the grip on his sword, advancing, and the blades clanged together once more. His enemy withdrew for a second and Jaskier made the mistake of moving to wipe his forehead - before the guard struck again, the weight of his dagger bearing down Jaskier’s, until it twisted out of his grip and clattered to the floor. 

A gloved hand shot forward and grabbed Jaskier’s collar; there was the sound of fabric ripping as he tried to pull away and a fist slammed into his jaw. Jaskier’s head reeled, but he kicked out, feeling his foot connect with something soft. There was a grunt of pain and the man stumbled back, back, back, but not far enough. Jaskier lunged towards his sword, scooping up the cool metal and swinging, catching the other weapon mere inches from his face. 

The poet, still half-blinded by the pain, swung wildly, missing badly the first two times, but feeling the metal snag on thick leather, he resorted to hitting out with the flat of his blade. It struck with an audible  _ clang _ and the guard finally dropped, hitting the floor hard. 

Jaskier stood, breathing heavily and staring at the second guard who took one look at his fallen companion and fled. A vicious trembling began in Jaskier’s fingers and spread through his muscles until his whole body was shaking - from exhaustion or fear, Jaskier couldn’t tell. He blew out a shaky breath, realizing what he’d done; he’d attacked a man… and won? The man on the floor began to stir slightly and Jaskier was jolted out of his daze, sound and colour flooding back into the world. 

“Okay, okay,  _ okay _ .”

He bent down and slung Geralt’s arm over his shoulder and struggled upright. 

“Bloody hell Geralt, they been feeding you rocks or something?”

Geralt just grunted in response, and Jaskier could see that he was barely able to put one leg in front of the other as they limped out the cell.    
The pair staggered out the doorway, Jaskier still not releasing his white-knuckled grip on his sword. Slowly, so painfully slowly, they made their way along torchlit corridors and past squalid cells, until a glimmer of light shone from above. 

“Well, Jaskier… I have to say… I’m impressed.” 

“Well, I am your knight in shining armor.”

Geralt let out a noise that might have been amused and might have been unimpressed, but the rest of the journey passed in silence until they emerged into sunlight and warmth. Jaskier grimaced at the evening light, blinking rapidly to let his eyes adjust. They couldn’t stop here - the guard that had run from the cell had probably raised the alarm, and Jaskier’s legs were already buckling under Geralt’s weight - but he could still walk. And whilst that was an option, he refused to leave Geralt behind. 

That was when he noticed that guards that had swarmed the empty marketplace, positively bristling with spears and weaponry. 

With the infamous ‘goddess’ standing behind them. 

_ Ah, bollocks _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaa the sword fighting took me forever to write so i hope it's okay to read  
> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and kudos mean the world to me!


	7. Fight for your life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The escape from the prison goes so much worse than Jaskier could’ve ever imagined

Jaskier’s eyes flicked over the scene before him, fingers tightening around Geralt until they turned white. He glanced around with increasing desperation, but still could see no escape routes that the pair could slip through. 

“Geralt?” He hissed, utterly at a loss for what to do, but all he got in return was what sounded like a encouraging grunt in response. Jaskier didn’t know what he was expecting; Geralt wasn’t exactly in the right shape to be taking on twenty armed guards and win. 

“Okay,  _ okay,”  _ He blew out a shaky breath and slowly released the Witcher who swayed slightly but remained upright. Shifting his sword in his palms, the poet strode forward with as much confidence as he could muster and halted mere inches from the white-clad mimic - before realising that he didn’t know what to say. The face of the ‘goddess’ leered down at him. 

“I told you to stay home, did I not, little bard?”   
A surge of fear edged with rage crashed through Jaskier and he stared hard at that shrouded face. A soft chuckle was the only response he received. 

“Hmm, well if you seem so determined to play the hero, I’ll be happy to oblige.”   
Jaskier knew that he should keep his mouth shut, but he’d never been very good at that and blurted out, “And what do you mean by that?”

Jaskier got the distinct impression that the mimic was grinning behind the white shroud and wished he’d just shut up. 

“Bring the Witcher over.” 

Jaskier spun, almost tripping, before he was snatched up by one of the many guards and was held, struggling but immobile, facing the town square. A stream of colourful obscenities flowing from his mouth as Jaskier helplessly watched as the deity approached the Witcher. Geralt narrowed his eyes and aimed a sloppy punch at her face - it was expertly blocked, and he stumbled forward into the mimic’s arms. The creature held him tightly before producing a handful of silvery-blue powder. Jaskier could only stare with growing horror as it was blown into Geralt’s face. 

The Witcher dropped like a stone. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice was strangled as he kicked out at the guard holding him. There was a thud and a grunt, and suddenly Jaskier was sprinting forwards, desperate to get to Geralt. The poet fell to his knees just as Geralt began to stir and it was at that moment that he realised that no one else in the clearing had moved to stop him. Jaskier paused, the familiar feeling of dread starting to claw its way through his veins once again. 

Beside him, the Witcher stood, smooth and powerful, no trace of injury left in his movements and for the first time Jaskier felt a tinge of fear as he stared up at Geralt’s stone-cold expression. 

“Geralt,” He said, trying to ignore the tremor in his voice, “Wha-” Geralt’s hand shot forward, almost faster than Jaskier could see and landed a terrible blow on his face. 

His vision flashed black for a second and a splitting agony in his jaw brough Jaskier back into consciousness, the sight of an advancing Geralt not giving Jaskier any time to do anything but scramble to his feet, shoving back the pain. Miraculously, he had still maintained his iron grip on his sword, but still couldn’t bring himself to point it at his friend. 

“Geralt!” His voice was pleading now, and Jaskier hated it. But again, the words had no effect. He was forced to duck and stumbled backward as Geralt threw another punch, but the Witcher just hooked his feet around Jaskier’s and sent him sprawling to the ground once again. 

The wind was thoroughly knocked out of him, but even so, Jaskier managed to turn to the mimic, “What the hell  _ did you do _ ??”

“I was merely making things more interesting.”

Jaskier gritted his teeth and once again stood, trembling slightly and facing Geralt. The bard swallowed tightly.  _ I’m sorry Geralt _ . 

With shaking fingers, Jaskier held the sword up in front of him. Geralt halted at the sight of it.

“Don’t - don’t come any closer Geralt, please - I don’t want to hurt you.  _ Please.” _ Jaskier’s voice broke on the last word. Geralt’s eyes seemed to widen somewhat, but he started advancing nonetheless. 

_ Oh god, oh god, oh god, this was bad, this was very bad. _

Geralt lunged towards him, and Jaskier swung - Geralt couldn’t dodge the blade entirely, and the metal caught his cheek in a small spray off blood. Undeterred, Geralt slapped the blade away with his palm and made to grasp Jaskier’s neck. The poet staggered back before jabbing the Witcher in the throat and sending him spluttering away. 

Jaskier seized the brief reprieve to sprint forward and tackle Geralt to the ground. The pair landed hard, and even though he was cushioned somewhat by Geralt, Jaskier still felt the impact jar him.

It was only when the poet received a backhand slap and was expertly flipped over that he realised just how much Geralt had been holding back in training. The bard lashed out, struggling in Geralt’s iron grip, trying to get a leg, an arm free - anything that would allow him to get the advantage. But nothing. Jaskier stared up into Geralt’s golden eyes which were now just inches from his. There was nothing in that face, no empathy, no compassion and it finally hit Jaskier that this Witcher was not his friend. He was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it, he couldn’t even move to wipe the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“Geralt, it’s Jaskier,” he whispered, “can you really not remember me?” 

Geralt said nothing, but he still hadn’t moved to hurt Jaskier further and the bard allowed a spark of hope to bloom in his chest. 

“The djinn shenanigans, when we met and were captured by the elves, am I really that easy to forget?”

A muscle moved in Geralt’s jaw and Jaskier closed his eyes, before leaning up and pressing a kiss to the Witcher’s mouth on impulse. As he predicted, nothing happened and after a second or two Jaskier pulled away with a small laugh. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that you know? Since we met - but if I told you I wanted to write you a love song you’d have laughed so much, so instead I wrote you a money making song. Biggest mistake of my career.” Jaskier settled back and squeezed his eyes shut. “Well, at least I can die a happy man now Geralt.” 

Then suddenly Geralt was kissing him back. 

Jaskier’s eyes opened wide in surprise before he all but melted into Geralt, returning it with equal force and urgency. Maybe time stopped for a second as Jaskier pressed himself against Geralt, feeling just so  _ alive _ . Jaskier broke away for a second, breathing hard and practically glowing. 

“Well, well, Geralt, if you’ve told me you were such a good kisser, I would’ve tried that sooner.”

Geralt just stared back at him, and for the first time since he’d known him, Jaskier saw he was actually flustered. 

“Ready to go kick some monster ass?”

“Fuck yeah,” Jaskier breathed back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos always make my day!


	8. One final trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its the final showdown between the goddess and our heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read this, left comments and kudos. I’ve had so much fun writing this and you guys have genuinely been great!

Geralt loosened his grip on Jaskier as he drew back slightly, rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again. Pins and needles crept through his hands, but the poet hurriedly snatched them towards him as he stood, trembling slightly as the last of the adrenaline left his system. The courtyard was deathly silent, so quiet that Jaskier was sure that the heartbeat that was thudding in his ears could be heard by the stoney-faced guards glaring at him from across the courtyard.  _ No - not quite stony-faced,  _ the poet realised with a spark of hope; a glimmer of fear was shining through the indifferent masks. 

Swallowing tightly, Jaskier dragged his gaze over to the mimic. Fury lined every edge of her posture, and Jaskier got the distinct impression that behind that white shroud, her burning gaze was fixed entirely on Jaskier. And Jaskier had been around enough pissed-off nobles and royalty over the years that his instinct to know when somebody was about to snap was almost perfect - so he knew for a fact the careful facade was about one wrong word away from shattering. 

“Geralt,” He hissed, feeling the mimic’s anger up a notch at his words, “We need to leave. Right now.” 

He dared a glanced up at Gerald’s face to find that it had almost completely closed off.

“No, no, no, no, _ no, no _ , Geralt, now is not the time for revenge!”

Geralt studied the mimic with narrowed eyes for a few more seconds, the urge to start throwing punches all too clearly written on his face, but he turned towards Jaskier nonetheless. 

“ _ Fine. _ ”

Jaskier was just in the process of letting out a breath of relief when a soft ‘no’ brought him back to reality. The bard turned slightly to stare at the mimic.  _ Shit _ .

“No,” the creature spoke again, this time the gentle edge of the words was ripped off, “No, I don’t think you’ll be able to do that.” 

_ Shit, shit, shit _ . Geralt’s smile turned nasty. 

“In fact, despite that little show, I don’t think you’ll be leaving here at all.” Even though the words were calm and composed, she was all but shaking with rage. Jaskier watched with growing dread as she opened her mouth to give the order that would seal their fates -

“WOOO!” 

The building tension in the courtyard suddenly vanished as the parties gathered there snapped their attention to a group of locals perched on the roof of a nearby house, clearly intent on watching a group of heretics get thoroughly murdered. The mimic’s calm exterior shattered, explosion of sudden noise the spark needed to ignite the bonfire. 

She lunged at Geralt with frightening speed, sleeves slipping back to reveal gnarled hands with talon-like nails grasping for his face. Jaskier was almost overwhelmed with horror, simply standing there and staring before he shook himself out of his trance and dived for his sword. He winced as suspected broken ribs protested sharply at the sudden movement, but scooped up the blade nonetheless, spinning to take in the scene. 

Geralt dodged the claws, reaching forward to grab its arm and yank it down to the cobblestones. The creature ripped free at the last moment, rolling to take the brunt of the fall on its shoulder. Jaskier took his opportunity, and swung wide at the mimic who ducked, leaving the poet to stumble forward, unbalanced. Before he could even think of blocking, the mimic was up in a flash, giving a powerful kick that Jaskier caught on his stomach. He staggered backwards, spluttering as bright bursts obscured his vision and his feet caught on the uneven surface - for one sickening moment, Jaskier felt himself falling before calloused hands caught him. 

“Thanks,” He gasped at Geralt who nodded, sprinting forward to throw a right hook at the mimic’s face. The creature gave a hiss of pain as its head snapped backwards, and Jaskier noticed in alarm that its features were becoming jagged and distorted.

By now the mimic and Geralt were trading swift blows, their movements weaving nets of punches and jabs around the other. Letting out a hoarse yell, Jaskier raised the sword and charged forwards, swinging at the mimic who glanced back, but not fast enough - black blood exploded out of the creature’s arm, releasing an acrid smell that caught in the back of Jaskier’s throat. The mimic screamed in frustration and swiped towards Jaskier who blocked the blow with the flat of his blade. Feinting towards the mimic’s face, the poet reversed his sword and struck its leg with similar results. 

But this time the blow came from his unguarded left and Jaskier fell to his knees, the blade clattering from his suddenly numb fingers. He stared blankly up as the mimic who’s shroud had slipped back enough to reveal perfect crimson lips twisted in a savage snarl. Jaskier was struck again - twice - three times - before he finally fell to the floor, fingers still itching towards his blade as it was snatched up by the mimic. 

“I don’t suppose you want to beg?”

_ Do not beg. Do not. _ Jaskier managed to give a weak smile. “Not really in that sort of mood.” 

The mimic opened its mouth again and probably said something cutting, but Jaskier was too busy staring at the way that its body was now actively moving, morphing like wet clay as the creature tried desperately to keep its shape together. 

It raised the sword. 

And a larger hand reached around and grabbed the creature’s face from behind, giving a sharp tug that sent it flying to the ground. The mimic made no move to rise again.

Shakily, Jaskier stood, wincing as his ribs sent spikes of pain shooting through him. 

“Ow…”

Again, that all-too familiar silence, coating everything with a heavy layer, rushed through the courtyard. The mimic’s figure had become squat and lumpy, the rolling sensation under the white robes never fully stopping. It raised its head, the shroud slipping off as Jaskier pressed his lips together at the sight of the unpleasant features.

“ _ Fuck _ .” it growled, struggling to its feet and staring around at the guards who had seemed to take a mental step back. Jaskier moved towards Geralt, as the sound of a gasp rang uncomfortably loud through the air. Then an uncertain scream that began to grow louder as more shrieks joined it. The locals on the roof began to scramble backwards, expressions full of horror as they stared at their goddess. 

The soldiers’ faces were full of the exact same disgust and fear as, one by one, they began to break the tight-knit formation, clearly torn between running and attacking. 

Jaskier poked Geralt in the arm, “That’s our cue to leave.” 

This time Geralt didn’t hesitate, just scooped up Jaskier’s sword, grabbed his hand and dragged them both down the nearest alleyway. 

_______________

The moment they made it into the woods beyond Bemoith Jaskier all but collapsed. Geralt paused as the poet sagged against a tree, breathing raggedly and clutching his ribs. He choked back a laugh, finally releasing the ridiculousness of the situation - a Witcher and a bard fleeing from a mimic. Now this would make an  _ excellent  _ ballad. Geralt stared at him for a second with an amused smile playing on his lips before shaking his head slightly. 

“Can you walk?”

Jaskier smiled, remembering that those were the exact same words he’d uttered to Geralt just a few hours ago. Gingerly, he tried to take a few steps before Geralt had to catch him as he fell.

“No.”

“And if I told you that they’ll probably come after us?”

Jaskier paled. “I can run.” 

That turned out to be an over exaggeration as it soon became clear that Jaskier could barely stagger through the trees without support. After a few meters of excruciating slowness Geralt turned and, before Jaskier could protest, scooped him up in his arms and began a jog through the forest. 

“What’s going to happen to the city?”

“If I were to guess, I would reckon that the townsfolk will be a little angry for being tricked.” 

“I don’t think a _ little angry  _ will cover it.” 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier leaned back and stared at Geralt’s face. His incredibly handsome face if Jaskier did say so himself. That he desperately wanted to kiss.  _ Gods damn it Jaskier, show some bloody restraint.  _ He glanced away, noticing that the trees had become more familiar as they neared the camp. Jaskier had never been more happy to be sleeping in the woods as Geralt broke into the clearing and set Jaskier down with surprising gentleness. Even the prospect of wet sleeping mats and watery rabbit stew couldn’t dampen his spirits as Roach delicately stepped into their camp. Jaskier felt a slight twinge of regret as he remembered she’d been on her own for the better part of a week. 

“Sorry girl,” he muttered and she flicked her ears at him as if to say  _ well you should be _ . Jaskier smiled ruefully, and glanced to where Geralt was approaching with a swath of bandage. 

“Right, we’ll travel to Nares tomorrow - it’s a good week’s travel from here and then you can find an inn or something.”

Jaskier froze, but didn’t resist as Geralt began wrapping the cloth around his ribs. “What do you mean  _ I _ can find an inn? You’ll - you’re coming too, right?” 

Geralt wouldn’t look at him. “There’ll probably be other contracts in other towns for me.” 

“So… so you’re leaving me. After that whole mess.” The pain in his chest now had nothing to do with his broken ribs. 

“Jaskier - you could have  _ died _ .” 

“But-”

“You’ll be better off without me anyway,” Geralt said, forcing a laugh. 

“Geralt, you could have easily died too.”

“Yes, but-” 

“No!” Even Jaskier was surprised at his assertiveness, “You saved me, but I also saved you - we need each other.” 

There was a silence before Geralt said more gently, 

“Jaskier, if you die then… I don’t know what I’d do.” 

“Well then that makes two of us.” 

Jaskier thought his heart might shatter. 

“No, Jaskier and that’s final - you can barely fight.” 

“Then you’ll teach me -”

“I’ll just get you killed.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm, finally meeting Geralt’s beautiful golden eyes. He smiled slightly.

“Wouldn’t that be a way to go though.” 

Even Geralt didn’t have anything to say to that. 

“Don’t leave me Geralt, because then that will mean that I’ve lost you.”

Jaskier bit his tongue. That kiss in Bemoith had been done in the heat of the moment, and now Jaskier worried he’d said too much. Geralt looked away, finishing bandaging the poet’s ribs and taking way longer than was needed for such a simple task. 

“What am I going to do with you Jaskier?” The weak joke was edged with hopelessness. 

“I have one idea,” Jaskier said, leaning in, circling Geralt’s waist with his hand and wrapping his fingers into the Witcher’s hair. 

The kiss was long and deep, and Jaskier started trembling again, all but melting in Geralt, pressing himself closer and closer. Geralt pulled him in, deepening it and leaning his forehead against the bard’s. Jaskier broke away for a second, breathless and giddy.

“And here we are,” he murmured.

“You’re a fool Jaskier,” Geralt mumbled against Jaskier’s lips, sending a shiver through him, “But you’re also my fool.” 

“Called it,” the poet laughed slightly, and pulled Geralt towards him again, heart aching for an entirely different reason this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always comments and kudos make my day!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment, you know you want to :)


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